


That One Time in Idaho

by AriadneBeckett (Jet44)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Affectionate Dean Winchester, Aftermath, Banter, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester Cuddling, Dean Winchester Takes Care of Sam Winchester, Episode Tag, Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Ghosts, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Loving Dean Winchester, Moose and Squirrel as Nicknames (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Sharing a Bed, Spirit Animals, Squirrels, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21817504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jet44/pseuds/AriadneBeckett
Summary: It has cuddles. And possibly the ghost of a squirrel. This is the tale of Sam and Dean recovering after the events of Red Meat, holed up in the Old Frontier Fill ‘er Up and Keep On Trucking Motel, Cafe, and Truck Stop.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 59
Kudos: 170





	1. Horseshoes Everywhere

Sam’s soft whimper when they struck a bump in the road ripped the charade apart. 

His brother had just been insisting the pain meds were working and that he was fine. Ever so fine. Just peachy. As a guy so often was after being shot and suffocated and left for dead and having to rescue himself alone in the wilderness.

Dean couldn’t even glance his way without his stomach roiling in regret, and it was time to admit he was screwing this up worse every minute. 

“I left you for dead.” Dean loathed the weak, broken quality of his voice. 

All he craved was to pull over and find a nice hotel somewhere and take care of Sam and maybe watch TV on a bed together so he could hold him when he fell asleep. An exit sign on the highway showed lodging, one mile ahead, and he touched the turn signal with his thumb. 

No. 

It was trying to atone for a sin too little, too late. He hadn’t been there for Sam when he was battling for his life alone. Dean didn’t get to just happen along and do the easy part. 

“I was dead, for all you could tell,” said Sam. 

The exit snapped by in a blink. His sickness deepened, and he sucked in a deep breath to chase away nausea. That made splitting pain rip through his rib cage, and his head spun. 

“You don’t look so hot,” said Sam. 

“Note to world, breathing with broken ribs sucks. Signed, Dean Winchester.” 

Sam chuckled, but his own breathing seized in pain. 

Before he could stop himself, Dean reached over and gripped Sam’s hand tight. How must it have felt to wake up after someone he was rescuing _killed him_ , only to find himself abandoned in misery alone on the floor? 

“I left you. That’s not okay.” 

“I told you to,” said Sam. 

Another highway sign. Lodging, two miles. Dean eased into the right lane. He was fixing to throw up. No matter how much he resisted it, his body was gonna have the last word, and he wasn’t about to hurl in the car. 

“Dude, I’m fine,” protested Sam. “I can sleep on the road.” 

“I’m not,” said Dean. “I’m gonna lose the lunch I never got.” 

“We Winchesters know how to have _fun_ ,” said Sam with dry humor, twisting his hand around to grip Dean’s. His fingers shook. “I heard gossip in the hospital. I know you got treated like shit by that deputy. I know you ODed. You had to go through that alone, thinking I died. Call it even, okay?” 

“And I heard the doctor use the words ‘unbearable agony’ to describe what you endured,” countered Dean. “Speaking of which, haven’t those nurses heard of HIPPA? What about my medical privacy?” 

“I think the professional standards of a small-town medical center might get thrown off by werewolves roaming the halls ripping hearts out.”

“Fair enough,” said Dean, gagging. His lips were cold and his ears buzzed, and he’d never been so grateful to a turn signal and an exit sign in his entire life. 

Five minutes later, he lifted his head up, brushed tears of pain from his eyes, and tried to satisfy Sam’s concerned gaze with humor from his position on palms and knees on the gravel mere feet from Baby’s passenger window. It was all kinds of classy, what with the discarded beer cans and cigarette butts and plastic trash he refused to study too close.

“Second note to world, throwing up with broken ribs sucks. Signed, Dean Winchester.” He was nearly drowned out by a filthy black pickup roaring by with dual diesel exhaust and a Union Jack decal some moron probably thought was the Confederate flag.

Sam chuckled, but the concern in his eyes told Dean if his ass wasn’t back in the driver’s seat in thirty seconds, Sam would get out to help. Dean forced himself to his feet, tried not to breathe, and slid behind the wheel with an uncloaked moan. If Sam thought Dean was suffering, he’d be 100% Team Motel Break. 

“Dude, you’re wrecked. Let’s get a motel. You shouldn’t be driving like this.” 

Yhatzee. “Thanks, mom,” muttered Dean. Time to discover what else this impressive display of Americana offered besides roadside trash and douche trucks.

* * *

He spent the next fifteen minutes acting his ass off. Pretending he was 100% peachy to the scrawny, mulleted desk clerk of the Old Frontier Fill ‘er Up and Keep On Trucking Motel, Cafe, and Truck Stop. Pretending it seemed perfectly normal to be assured, “Don’t worry, we don’t got no leeches in our beds.” 

The clerk peered out and saw Sam in the car. “Need any room service?” 

“Uh - pie?” suggested Dean. “Can you bring pie, beer, and, uh, a salad I guess?” Too early for dinner, but food to snack on might be welcome. 

“Uh, sure.” The clerk scribbled a note. “What about, uh, party favors? You know?” 

“No thanks,” said Dean, grinning. 

“Poppers? Grass?” 

Dean dug out the bottle of pills the doctor had given him and rattled it. “Got things covered, thanks.” At least if the clerk’s mind ran that direction, Dean’s, “I’m totally not about to pass out” routine must be working. 

Pretending to Sam that he was okay enough to support his shaky steps into the room and carry their bags, but that he was also in such pathetic shape that he needed to hole up in a hotel room in constant contact with his little brother. 

Pretending that the shape Sam was in wasn’t batfuck terrifying. Sam’s entire body shook from the effort of walking into the room, and he was too willing to lean his weight against Dean. His almost frantic grip around Dean’s chest sent white-hot pain through Dean’s ribs. 

Sam let out a guttural yelp when he lowered himself onto the bed, and Dean cursed himself for even leaving town with him in this condition. When Sam Winchester stopped pretending it was okay, things were bad. 

Dean fetched their bags from the car, wiped his hands on his pants and surveyed their surroundings. Room was defensible enough, with the door and window close enough together to cover both from a sheltered position inside the bathroom. Fire or tear gas would be an issue, because the door and window formed the only exits. He placed a shotgun on each nightstand, tossed his handgun on the bed, and stashed the bag with the rest of the weapons in the bathroom.

Place wasn’t bad, overall. It smelled like fresh laundry and carpet cleaner, and the tan paint looked new, the glossy pine paneling clean. 

Horseshoes. 

Horseshoes _everywhere_. Horseshoe door knobs, horseshoe welcome lettering, horseshoe coat rack, horseshoes nailed to the freaking headboards. He checked. Real. Iron. Could be handy, and made it improbable the last guest to die of a heart attack here was haunting the joint. Paintings of horseshoes and wagon wheels adorned the walls, and the bedspreads were littered with covered wagons towed by oxen.

“Did…. oxen wear horseshoes?” asked Dean. "Well, it doesn’t matter. Clerk said there weren’t any leeches in the beds, so that’s nice. Idaho is something else, let me tell you.”

Sam, slumped on the bed with his eyes closed, didn’t respond. Dean looked close to make sure he was breathing and then moved a taxidermy squirrel dressed in a white nightgown off the bedside table to make room for pill bottles. He set the thing down on the entertainment center, patting its dead, rumpled fur back into place. 

Humans. It wasn’t enough to kill a harmless animal and stuff its body for display; they had to dress it in a cutesy nightgown? Dean impulsively ripped the flimsy fabric away and threw it in the trash. 

“Sorry, little fella,” he muttered. “Seems like a war crime, if you ask me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated if you enjoyed this :D


	2. The Great Squirrel Wars of 2016

Sam had a dull perception of Dean pulling his boots off. And something about oxen and leeches. And squirrel war crimes? 

“Do squirrels even have wars?” asked Sam.

He’d been borderline hallucinating in sheer pain and exhaustion by the time they put him under at the clinic. Soothing voices and a mask over his face drove the searing rays of almost visible agony away, and when he woke up…

Coming out of anesthesia was akin to waking in a different world. One that hurt, but was whole and bearable. He just wasn’t certain he was alive. Strangulation and anesthesia and passing out and hearing that Dean had died and come back…. How was he supposed to know which reality he woke up in? Especially when this one apparently had the Squirrel Wars.

“I’m sure there’s a cartoon somewhere.“ Dean tugged at him. “Lemme take your coat off?”

“Why?” That involved sitting up. “Ain’t gonna happen. You see, back in the great Squirrel War of two thousand sixteen...” 

“Because we’re sleeping here,” said Dean, in a rare patient manner. “You’re wearing hunting clothes.” 

Oh. Sam shuddered. He doubtless stank, too. Wasn’t like they’d offered him a nice hot shower under anesthesia. He’d woken up rather less covered in blood, but far from fresh. He forced himself to sit. Passing out could happen later. He needed to pass out next to Dean, his solid, protective friend at his back. 

Dean had made the right decision, leaving him. But coming to in a desolate cabin and knowing he was on his own? He didn’t want to risk waking in the night to face that memory anew. Dean would let Sam crash next to him. But only if he didn’t stink of sweat and dead werewolf. 

“Clothes?” asked Sam. 

Dean pressed Sam’s favorite sleep shirt, loose pajama pants, and clean boxers into his hands, then wrapped his arms around Sam in a hug that boosted him to his feet. Dean helped take his jacket and shirt off, then Sam headed for the bathroom. 

“Where do you think you’re goin?” 

“Shower,” said Sam. 

Dean huffed. “Were you conscious, at the hospital? They told you not to get that wound wet.” 

“I’ll be careful,” Sam promised. “Mom.” 

“Shut up,” muttered Dean. 

* * *

When Sam staggered out of the bathroom, he still felt like hammered crap, but at least it was _clean_ hammered crap. Dean scrambled to his side, and Sam was in no condition to turn down the protective arms that folded around him, guiding his steps and helping support his weight. 

Dean pulled the covers back. Lying down hurt every bit as much as Sam expected, and he indulged himself with a few near-sobs of pain trying to breathe through it. 

“Shhhh,” said Dean. He gripped Sam’s right hand tight and cupped his cheek with a warm, gentle series of worried pats. “It’ll end. Pain always ends eventually. Hang in there.”

Sam was in that place where his mind retreated when his body was feeding him too much pain, weakness, and exhaustion to endure. It wasn’t a pleasant place, but it was one of suspended animation where he shrugged and said, “okay” to each new input, refusing to react to it. It was a skill honed in the cage, and using it brought forth some of the worst memories on the planet, but it worked. 

Dean tucked the blankets up around his shoulders, using that as an excuse for more reassuring touches. “Easy, Sammy. What you did back there makes John Mclain walking on broken glass seem like party tricks for five-year-olds. Time for you to rest up.” 

“Can’t believe I had to drive myself to the hospital to save your ass,” said Sam, not opening his eyes. 

Sam was clean, and alive, and drugged, and Dean - whatever had gone down in that clinic, whatever illness and side effects he was trying to hide, he was okay. Physically miserable, mentally okay. 

This was Dean in full-on protective big brother mode, and that meant Sam was as safe as it was possible for a Winchester to feel. If there were to be a full-scale demon attack on their hotel room, this Dean would doubtless kill them all without waking Sam, then try to explain the blood-splattered, body-strewn aftermath as erotic cosplay. 

The tangy odor of ranch and not-quite-fresh lettuce wafted into Sam's nose, and he opened his eyes to a plastic bowl with a plastic fork impaled in a limp pile of D-grade lettuce and croutons. He gagged. Eating wasn’t on the agenda anytime the rest of the year, especially not when it stank like that. 

“Hey, you finally agree with me about the edibility of salads!” Dean sounded way too gratified by that. “Beer?” 

“Get that shit away from me,” said Sam. 

“Even the beer?” Deflated confusion replaced the gratification.

“ _Especially_ the beer,” said Sam with as much firmness as a floating container of jelly could muster up. 

“You should eat.” 

“No, I really shouldn’t,” said Sam. “And beer isn’t food. Ice water?” 

Dean ruffled his hair, trying for casual affection and expressing desperate worry in his touch. Sam closed his eyes to concentrate on that comforting warmth instead of the throbbing fire in his guts. “You got it. Freak.” 

“ _Shot_ freak. Shot freak gets what he wants.” 

It took Dean a laughable amount of time to produce ice water. “Didn’t know I’d ordered you to do rocket surgery,” complained Sam. 

“Your fault, asking me for an alien beverage,” said Dean, pressing a cold plastic cup into his hand and tucking Sam’s fingers around it with a gentle squeeze. 

“If I’d asked for a Jack and Coke in a church, it would’ve taken less time.” 

It wasn’t until a hand not his own nudged a straw at his lips that Sam realized Dean was still holding his hand, and the cup, guiding it for him. 

Sam gulped down the water, his parched and inflamed throat desperate for the soothing cold. Dean’s hand gripped tighter. In Dean World, drinking water was a sign of incipient death. When Dean and the cup he’d drained down to the ice moved away, a pang of loss cut right down to his stomach. Sam was too exhausted to fix that. Instead, he stared at a dead squirrel that seemed to be watching him. Accusing. Or was it pleading?

Either way, that squirrel _wanted_ something from him. "Talk to Dean, buddy," Sam told it. "I'm down for the count."

Maybe one day he’d get used to the decor in these places. Horseshoes and taxidermy squirrels. The archaeologists of the future had confusing times ahead.

A few minutes later, Dean was back with more water, and pills. “More pills?” asked Sam. He was already losing coherency by the moment, but that might be exhaustion, not drugs. 

“Time for your antibiotics, and more pain meds,” said Dean with sincere patience. Once again, Sam experienced a twinge of loss when his comforting presence eased away. 

“Come back?” Sam patted the bed beside him. “Brother goes here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated if you enjoyed this :D


	3. Some Things Shouldn't be Normal

  
Dean’s jaw dropped, and he would have laughed if Sam didn’t look so half-dead. Guy was drugged off his rocker. Or was he?

That bed, next to his brother, was the most inviting place on the planet. Dean was still dizzy, his stomach and his taste buds were duking it out over whether pie was a good idea, and his ribs felt like angels were holding a branding contest inside them. The nothingness of sleep, and a warm, safe and most importantly _alive_ Sammy at his side? 

Yes, please, and thank you. 

He walked to the side of the bed and patted Sam’s shoulder, leaning a shotgun against the side of the bed within easy reach. Leaving Sam so defenseless rankled. “I gotta shower too, dork. I’ll be right back. Holler if you need anything.” 

* * *

Dean eased himself down on the bed beside Sam and clicked on the TV. Found Die Hard and started it. Sam was asleep, unconscious, or perhaps just wished he was. Dean rested his hand with care over Sam’s wound, and wished for once in his life he were an angel, so he could magic away damage and pain. 

That woman - Michelle. Tough girl. She was strong enough to have survived days as a prisoner strung up to a ceiling, the trek back, facing and apologizing to him, even helping him at the hospital…. But now she had to live her life with those memories, the knowledge that monsters were real, and mourn the loss of someone she loved who had turned into a killer. 

Was it even kind, saving a lovely person who had to look into his eyes with so much pain and horror? What sort of emotional and mental carnage did they leave behind when they sped out of town feeling fulfilled and patting themselves on the back for saving lives? 

Sam lay still, eyes closed, not responding to anything on the screen.

“You awake?” asked Dean.

His soul was raw, and he craved Sam’s good soul and kind heart telling him there was something, anything, beyond all this pain. It was that damn squirrel that broke him. A man they were rescuing tried to kill his wonderful, decent, heroic brother. But he understood that. Didn’t excuse it, understood it. Skinning tiny animals to pose them in dresses to display - he wouldn’t even do that to a wendigo. 

Some times he wanted off the planet, and this was one of them. Thinking he’d lost Sam…

He’d gone through the motions of the good man, the hunter and the rescuer. He got tasered for it. He understood that too. He understood standing there zip-tied to a damn rack freshly back from the dead with his ribs broken, grieving.

But facts were only one person saw his real intentions and helped him, the tiny young woman they just left behind devastated. 

He and Sam were comfortably damaged beyond repair. So much so that neither of them had the least bit of inclination towards discussing how messed up it was that someone they saved had attempted to murder Sam. He’d tried to hide the whole, “Thought you were dead, OD’d, summoned a reaper” thing, Sam had figured it out, and it was a blip. The only unusual part was the sheer grit that it had taken for Sam to survive. 

“This should not be normal,” said Dean, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Sam.

“I told him to go find you,” said Sam without opening his eyes or moving a muscle. “I told him to get you to leave me there. And he suffocated me. Said - you wouldn’t leave me, and they wouldn’t survive without you.” 

The hurt note in Sam’s voice filled Dean with anger on his behalf. But hey, maybe not so damaged after all. Just acknowledging that it stung was comforting. “Fucking humans. I swear….” 

“I said leave me, not _kill_ me,” said Sam, the whining note in his voice deliberate and humorous. 

That didn’t make it funny. At all. 

“We left ‘cause we could hear their truck coming,” said Dean. “I thought you were dead - I checked, I swear. And I was coming back for you, I was trying to save you, I was - I’m so sorry, Sammy.” 

“Don’t - Dean, stop apologizing and kicking yourself for making logical decisions,” pleaded Sam. “Today sucked, but I’m here, you’re here, and I just want my brother. Please.” 

Warmth and love spread through every atom of Dean’s body, and he blinked away tears. This was why he would always, always summon a demon, call a reaper, kidnap a witch, whatever it took. He rolled onto his side, facing Sam who was flat on his back, and snaked an arm over Sam’s chest. He used Sam’s giant shoulder as a pillow and closed his eyes. 

This was his line in the sand. The universe could take him. It could - and had - take everyone he’d ever known and loved. But it couldn’t have Sam.

* * *

Sam heaved a deep sigh of contentment and relaxed for real, for the first time since things had gone down in the cabin. Dean loved nothing more than comforting physical contact, but he was convinced somewhere deep down that nobody wanted him in their space unless it was for sex.

It’d taken two flat-out instructions and pleas to get Dean beside him, and now - now things were good. 

“Thank you,” whispered Dean. 

“For what?” 

Dean tightened his arm, and wiggled until he had his temple pressed against the side of Sam’s jaw. It was loving and cuddly and turned Sam into a helpless puddle of _I adore my brother_. “For fighting as hard as you did to survive. Not making me lose you.” 

Sam stopped breathing. He didn’t know why he’d hoped Dean wouldn’t figure that out or think of it. 

Getting out of those woods alive had been one of the hardest, most excruciating things he’d done in his life. His own will to survive wasn’t that strong. 

Every time he got tempted to quit, he saw Dean with tears running down his face and heartbreak in his eyes. He saw Dean selling his soul. He saw Dean killing Death. He saw Dean on a grief-fueled rampage that would end in nightmares. 

And he picked himself up and fought for his life. 

It was soothing, being thanked for that. Being so loved by the fierce, gleeful, absurd force of nature that was Dean Winchester that he didn’t dare die. He’d made it back, and being in Dean’s arms, warm and solid and cozy, was all the reward he could dream of. 

“You gave me someone to fight for,” said Sam, seeking Dean’s hand and intertwining his fingers with it. In doing so, he realized that everything had stopped hurting when his big brother had snuggled up against his side. 

Lying still and ingesting massive amounts of pain medication eased the worst of it, but his nervous system had still been screaming “Danger!” until Dean had wrapped him up in this sense of comforting safety. He still didn’t dare move, or laugh, or even talk loud, but things were okay now. He was desperate to be okay. Dean’s heartbeat was like a lullaby, reassuring him that this wonderful anchor was right here loving him.

Sam tightened his hand around Dean’s. “Stay here. Please.” 

_Don’t go thinking I’m a grownup who doesn’t need you. I need my big brother here so I can pass out._

“I got you, Sammy,” said Dean, using the loving, rumbly, soft voice that Sam cherished. “I got you. Angry wild-horse-ghosts couldn’t get me to let you go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated if you enjoyed this :D


	4. There is Not a Ghost Squirrel in Your Motel Room

A faint, raspy chirp in his ear roused Sam, pulling him away from a dream where Dean was firing rock salt at ghost leeches…. and right into another where the squirrel had somehow gotten off the TV stand, come alive, and was on Sam’s chest, pawing at Dean’s nose.

“Go ‘way,” said Sam in a whisper. “He’s hurt. He needs to rest.”

The squirrel squeaked in protest, but sniffed with tender concern at Dean’s face, then explored with tiny paws until he found the taped ribs. With a sigh, the little animal lay down on Sam’s chest, tucked under Dean’s chin.

Sam blinked repeatedly, realized he was awake, and thought about waking Dean. But the guy was so damn asleep, and content, melted into Sam’s side, that he just couldn’t do it. Broken ribs meant every breath had to hurt, and - no. 

“Hey, do you see that squirrel too?” just wasn’t worth it. Plus, Dean would be teasing him for eternity about “That time you woke me up because you were hallucinating squirrels.”

* * *

Dean woke up to the whine of the EMF meter in the weapons bag in the bathroom. Crap. He eased himself out of bed to avoid disturbing Sam, grabbed an iron horseshoe sculpture of a cross off the wall, and brandished it as he tiptoed into the bathroom. 

Something tiny and furry launched itself off the weapons bag straight at his face, up and over his head, and down his back before he could even swing. 

“Son of a bitch!” Was that - had that been - no. Squirrels didn’t have ghosts. _There is no such thing as a ghost squirrel in your motel room._ He grabbed the EMF meter and the shotgun with salt rounds.

The room was dark, illuminated only by a night light and the glow of parking lot lights through the curtains. He held the EMF meter next to the stuffed squirrel. Nothing. 

_I might have recently overdosed, but I am not hallucinating ghost squirrels. I am not._

Dean slithered back into bed. Sam didn’t stir. Dean longed to cuddle up next to him again, but he hadn’t been invited…..

Yes, he had. Sam had been quite firm in his preferences earlier, and who was he to deny a badly wounded little brother? He snuggled his body close to Sam, availing himself again of that wonderful warm shoulder-pillow. Besides, if he might need to defend the guy from incorporeal squirrels, he needed to be there.

These were the moments to cherish in life. Sam was possibly the most badass person on the planet. After all the shooting and the suffocating and the single-handed dispatching of werewolves, he’d driven to the clinic to rescue Dean. With his guts half hamburgered. 

So when this guy needed Dean, when he looked at Dean with soft eyes filled with sincere trust and vulnerability…. It was something far beyond an honor. Something that moved him in ways he couldn’t even fathom. Something he would go to the ends of the earth to deserve.

* * *

Sam sneezed awake, barely stifling it to keep from waking Dean. 

Ow. Ow. _Ow._ Sneezing while shot, terrible idea. Why was there hair - no, fur - against his nose? A furry tail whipped out of his field of vision and he found himself eye to eye with the squirrel on his chest. 

Sam groaned. Percoset dreams were friggin wild. Dean was sound asleep with his head on Sam’s shoulder and - damn it, this felt awake. Contrasted with Dean, who was sound asleep. The squirrel rested a delicate paw on Dean’s nose, then looked right at Sam and gave him a pleading chirp. 

Seeing that he had Sam’s attention, the little creature looked between him and the shotgun and EMF meter that were now sitting on the edge of the other bed. Then he flattened his ears and lay town on Sam’s chest with a pleading expression that Sam could swear read, “ _Please don’t let Dean shoot me_.”

The squirrel nuzzled Dean’s forehead with clear affection. Okay. “ _I like Dean, please don’t let him shoot me_.”

 _Great. Normal people hallucinate monsters when they’re high, grown-ass hunters hallucinate scenes from Disney movies._ But this wasn't even a Disney squirrel. It was just a normal grayish brown squirrel with a tawny underbelly, chocolate brown eyes, and little button ears. It didn't look dead, or vengeful, or like anything other than a squirrel.

“Dean’s nice,” said Sam in a barely audible voice. “Don’t make him feel threatened, and he won’t hurt you. We hunt ghosts, because they’re usually dangerous, so just - don’t startle him.”

The little guy looked relieved, and scrambled up on Dean’s shoulder, settling in to sleep with its bushy tail wrapped around its head.

Sam closed his eyes. This was absurd. Absurdly wonderful. Mainly the part where Dean was sandwiched against him sound asleep, warm and soft and relaxed, one arm snugged around Sam’s chest to make sure he didn’t go anywhere. But squirrels decorating his badass older brother like a Christmas tree weren’t half bad either. Definitely a mental image for the record books.

* * *

Sam woke to Dean snoring on his chest and sunlight seeping through the horseshoe-littered drapes. He rubbed his eyes and tried to sort out what was real. 

Ow. Okay, having been shot was real. He reached out his right arm to the table where Dean had positioned a bottle of water and pain meds within easy grasp. The bottle was even open so Sam didn’t have to fiddle with the lid, and a post-it note read, TAKE 2 EVERY 4 HOURS. 

Sam downed two of them. He’d just have to hope they kicked in before he needed to pee, because getting up felt like it’d be unbearable.

Haunted leeches? Haunted leeches being towed by oxen? No. Thank the drugs for that one. The squirrel was in its rightful place on the TV stand.

Dean overdosing? No. Wait. Damn it, that happened, Dean was just pretending it hadn’t. Sam twisted his head to look at the other nightstand. Pain meds for Dean, too. 

Broken ribs, Dean admitted to. The talk Sam had overheard about Dean being tasered and concussed and restrained and threatened with sedation was probably true too. 

Sam took advantage of Dean’s slumber to stroke his back, hurting inside for his older brother. Just how much pain had Dean hidden and lied about in his lifetime? Sam had no qualms about demanding Dean’s presence beside him, knowing the request was welcome and even cherished.

Dean wouldn’t admit a need to be held and comforted if he was dying.

Dean wiggled and stretched out his back under Sam’s palm, letting out a contented huff. His eyes were closed, and he shivered then went limp when Sam’s hand traced over the tape binding his ribs under the soft shirt. If Dean were a cat, he’d be purring.

“You ‘k, Sammy?” asked Dean, opening his eyes. They were soft and relaxed, meeting Sam’s gaze with gentle honesty.

“Not physically,” said Sam, returning the honesty. He was raw enough inside that he needed this soft Dean to stick around for a while. “I will be, but - not today.”

“We’ve got the room as long as we need,” said Dean. 

As long as _we_ need. Not as long as _you_ need. That was as close as Dean would ever come to admitting he needed this too.

“Good,” said Sam. “Cause I’m not gonna be moving unless ghost squirrels are involved.”

“Ghost… squirrels?” Dean blinked in utter confusion. Then an expression of shock crossed his face, and he tilted his head up to stare at Sam almost crosswise from the odd angle. 

“Drugs. Don’t even ask," said Sam. Dean looked so sleepy, and befuddled, that Sam had to resist petting him like a puppy. Dean with his guard down was a rare and adorable thing to behold.

"Did you - did you see a ghost squirrel last night?" asked Dean, his brows furrowed as his eyes traveled to the EMF meter on the other bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated if you enjoyed this :D


	5. Dean, Please Don't Try Riding a Moose

Dean struggled to sit up and repressed a yelp. Holy mother of frigging _ow_. He paused for a second, propping himself up on his elbows. Breathing hurt. Moving while breathing? Just peachy. His brain throbbed like it had an infestation of axe-wielding fire ants. Where was a damn angel when a guy needed one? He prepared himself, gritted his teeth, and glanced sideways at Sam. 

His heart fell apart.

His little brother, the one who’d been so softly stroking his back while he woke up, was white as a ghost, and looked as drawn and tired as one, too. Even his hair was limp and crushed. Sam’s eyes were sunken and bleary. Anxiety lined his forehead, induced by Dean’s imminent departure. The contrast of dark stubble on his chin made him look even more drained of life.

Okay, new plan. No hiding how much his ribs ached, or how tired he was even after sleeping all night. If Sam thought Dean needed to rest, Sam would play up his own injuries to make Dean stay put. For once, instead of pretending all was peachy, they would make utter wimps out of each other.

Dean sat, whimpering like an injured puppy.

Sam snickered. _Snickered_ _._ Then grimaced, regretting the movement. Dean patted his shoulder, then squeezed it in the empathy of shared experience. "Sadist."

“Dude.” Sam’s eyes were alert enough to twinkle, at least. He swatted at Dean, a perfunctory swipe that didn’t even clear the covers, let alone hit him. “I’m down for the count. I won’t move. As long as you don’t leave. Because if you do, I swear I’ll follow your example, so lay off the tough guy theatrics.”

Damn it. Either Sam needed to surrender a few of those excess brain cells, or Dean needed acting classes. 

Sunlight was trying to force its way through the curtains, and the room was warm. Cozy, even. The queen-size beds were soft and bouncy, if sadly bereft of magic fingers. Nice big TV, and a diner that delivered to the door - sure, they could chill for a few days and lick their wounds.

“What’s with the EMF?” asked Sam. Dean gave the taxidermied squirrel an interrogating glance, but it didn’t blink. It just perched next to the TV with an accusing plastic stare.

Dean cleared his throat. “I, uh - yeah. About that. The meter went off last night. Real faint. But I’m not sure about that, because I think I hallucinated a ghost squirrel. Which is nuts, right? I mean, animals don’t have ghosts, and I scanned the stuffed one, and nothing.”

“Um.” Sam tried not to burst out laughing. He failed. It hurt, and Dean rubbed his shoulder until it passed. “I hallucinated the same squirrel. Repeatedly.”

“You’re kidding me.” Dean’s gaze traveled to the squirrel. “Man, we gotta get that poor critter out of here before it gives us nightmares. I mean - we _are_ hallucinating, right? We’re both drugged up good….”

Sam considered. “If it’s both of us, it’s worth investigating. They’re painkillers, not LSD. But - this isn’t your typical ghost.”

“Yeah, _‘cause it’s a squirrel!_ ”

“It’s not vengeful,” said Sam. “It - he’s cuddly, and he likes you.”

Dean’s jaw dropped, and it was his turn to laugh despite himself. He doubled over in pain, but got it together fast. “You - hallucinated a cuddly ghost squirrel with a crush on me?”

Sam reached for him with a hand recently freed from the blankets, distressed. Dean squeezed it tight, desperate for his brother to worry about himself, not Dean. His own injuries were minor; it was just pain. Sam was gut-shot. He had blood loss to recover from and infection to fight off and tissues to repair. 

“It gets worse,” said Sam. “I’m not kidding, I swear the thing understood English and knows how to communicate with body language. It glanced back and forth between you and the shotgun and gave me the world’s most pathetic puppy eyes. I told him you wouldn’t shoot if he didn’t threaten you, and he curled up and went to sleep on top of you.”

Dean’s jaw dropped, and he studied Sam for tells of an elaborate prank. But the unusual color of Sam’s cheeks and the way he refused to meet Dean's eyes, nibbling his lower lip, all spoke to Sam knowing how made-up his story sounded.

“No. No. No.” Dean shook his head for emphasis. “No. This is absurd. Hell, this is so far past absurd, _Gabriel_ wouldn’t dream it up.”

“Why do you think I didn’t wake you?” said Sam. “But come on. We’ve been TV stars in alternate dimensions. We’ve been to heaven, and hell, and time-traveled to collect the ashes of a Phoenix. This is not the craziest thing we’ve experienced.”

“There are rules!” said Dean, trying to channel the conviction he was losing into his voice. “Squirrels do not have ghosts, and if they did, they would not freaking cuddle me!”

“Sure,” said Sam. His eyes narrowed, and so much insincerity dripped off the word, Dean wanted to smack him.

“You let a ghost squirrel sleep on me?” asked Dean. Was that creepy, or adorable? Maybe both.

“I thought I was hallucinating,” said Sam. “Would your first thought be, oh, yes, this is _totally_ real?”

“No,” admitted Dean. 

He got up and swept the entire room for EMF, then pulled the curtain halfway open to let light in but still protect them from prying eyes. Thin morning sunlight flooded in, making him blink while his vision adjusted. The heater by the window had a thin layer of dust on it, and a smudge grabbed his attention. 

Too indistinct to say for sure. But it looked like a damn squirrel-shaped pawprint. 

_Ghost. Squirrel._

“Do you know how friggin overjoyed Crowley would be to hear about our little problem?” said Dean.

“Only if a ghost moose showed up too,” said Sam, his voice raspy.

Despite knowing there were none, Dean scanned the walls for mounted moose heads.

“Sorry Dean,” said Sam in his dryest sarcasm-voice. “No ghost moose for you to saddle up and ride into the sunset.”

“That. Would. Be. Awesome.” Dean’s mood lightened. “Maybe not a ghost, though. Is there someplace you can ride an actual moose? We should find some cases in Canada.”

How cool would that be? _Look, dad, I’m riding a moose!_

"Dean, please don't try riding a moose." Dean wasn't even looking at the guy, but he could _hear_ Sam's eyes rolling.

* * *

A cold weight settled into Sam’s chest when Dean vanished into the bathroom. A growing ache through his ribs, his heart pounding, his breathing shallow. 

_I’m alone._

_I’m alone and everything hurts._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are deeply appreciated if you enjoyed this :D


	6. Freaking Squirrels

_I’m alone and everything hurts and I’m -_

_No. No, Sam. You’re not in that cabin. You’re not in the cage. Dean is right there._

Sam bit his lower lip and forced himself to take deep breaths, but that hurt so bad it drew tears to his eyes. 

He was drugged and helpless. Dean was hurt and even though they survived this round, a time was on the horizon when they wouldn’t. He didn’t want to die alone. He didn’t want Dean to die. And this life made bloody endings probable. 

Fighting creatures that occupied people’s nightmares hardened a guy to almost anything. It also meant he’d experienced all of his own worst nightmares coming true and had no way to delude himself into a more comforting reality.

Sam clenched fistfuls of blanket, closing his eyes and struggling to pull it together. Through all that physical agony, he’d driven himself with thoughts of what Dean would do if he didn’t make it back. But cold terror of being alone at the end jolted him on a few times too. 

_So this is why Dean's so afraid of being alone. It sucks._

_Sucked_ , he reminded the dread making his body shiver. _You aren’t alone. Dean’s right there in the bathroom._

When Dean returned, he’d splashed water on his face, but his usually tidy hair was still a scruffy, appealing thicket of soft spikes. He was clenching his phone, and wiggled it at Sam. 

“I ordered breakfast,” said Dean. “Got you oatmeal with fruit, and scrambled eggs. I know you don’t feel great, but those are easy to eat, okay?”

He paused beside the bed and scrutinized his feet. “Do you, uh, want a bottle? For, uh….”

“I’ll wait until the meds kick in and try to avoid that solution,” said Sam. “It’d be good for me to stand.”

Relief flashed across Dean’s face, but he remained there radiating awkwardness. “What’s - wrong, Sammy?”

Dean looked soft and concerned and relaxed, and that more than anything started unwinding Sam’s soul. Dean was already cursing himself for leaving Sam behind. Sam didn’t have the nerve to admit to him that yes, it had sent chills through his heart. There was no blame. None. Dean had done the right thing, but -

“Is it pain?” Dean’s tone was a gentle balm on frayed nerves. “You hurting?”

“No - I mean, yes, it hurts, but it’s not - I can handle it.”

Dean’s hand dropped to his shoulder, fingers making soft contact. Testing whether Sam preferred to be left alone, or held. “This reminding you of the cage?”

“A little,” said Sam. “Nothing bad. Just - fallout, you know?”

“Hey. Hey,” said Dean, his voice filled with love and understanding. He knelt beside the bed and stroked Sam’s cheek. “You’re okay, Sammy.”

Sam closed his eyes, and focused on the warm, steady touch. Dean was his anchor. Dean was here. It was okay. 

“Thank you for surviving,” said Dean, working his fingers into Sam’s hair and gripping Sam’s right hand tight. “I know it was hard.”

Sam squeezed Dean’s palm, hard. Dean got the message and tightened his grip to crushing to distract Sam and hold him steady. 

“I’m not dumb, you know,” said Dean. 

“Whadda you mean?”

“If the positions were reversed, I wouldn’t blame you for leaving. Like, at all. But it’d about kill me to wake up on the floor and realize -” Dean’s voice cracked, and he drew in a deep breath to pull himself together. “Realize I’d been left behind. And no way in hell I’d voice that. So just - I get it, okay?”

“Okay,” whispered Sam, grateful not to be alone with this feeling. Just because it was irrational didn’t make it stop sucking.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean assured him, stroking Sam’s temple with his thumb. Harsh grip on his hand, gentle touches on his face - it split Sam’s focus, and his breathing settled, the dread easing away. Dean was an intuitive savant who wrongly depicted himself as an uneducated buffoon. 

Sam relaxed, letting his older brother take over. It was rare for him to feel simple trust. But right now Dean’s focused, intent pushing and pulling at him were almost bliss-inducing. When they were kids, Dean had always cared, and sacrificed, and done his very best to be a better mother and father than his own parents.

He hadn’t been skilled at it. A tough, scared boy with a drill-sergeant father ended up overbearing and impatient. Adult Dean….

“I ordered in, I’m taking care of you, and I am not leaving, got it?” 

Adult Dean still had all that devotion, and he knew how to communicate it now. Especially after Lisa and Ben. Sam had been the accidental beneficiary of a crash course in tenderness and nurturing.

“Got it,” said Sam, opening his eyes. Dean looked straight into them with an intensity of love that stole Sam’s breath away. 

Dean let go and stood. Sam resisted the urge to protest, but Dean lay down beside him and folded him into a giant hug, patting him and rocking him with that same distracting alternation of tenderness and force.

Sam heaved a tremendous sigh of relief and closed his eyes again, melting into Dean’s arms. This was safety. This was love. He’d clung to life for this. 

“Thank you, Sam,” Dean repeated, his voice dead sober. 

This was a steady heartbeat his ear and warm arms snug around his back and a hand cradling the back of his head. It was okay. Maybe tomorrow it wouldn’t be, or maybe tomorrow they’d be tracking psychic trees or exhuming a five-year-old. Who knew what their insane lives would bring later. Right now was perfect.

Right now, he could be a boy again and let his big brother hold him and chase the dragons away. And the monster trucks, too. The rumble of a diesel engine announced something obnoxiously large pulling up outside their room.

“Kuk - kuk - kuk - quaaaaaaaa!” The sound jolted them both.

They raised their heads just in time to see a small brown blur flee from the window towards the bathroom. Dean sat up, and Sam winced when he saw how hard Dean tried to suppress pain that made his arms quiver. 

“That was a freaking squirrel,” said Dean with the utmost certainty in his tone, his questioning expression betraying him. 

“Actually, I think it’s a tree squirrel,” said Sam. “ _Freaking_ squirrels aren’t native to Ida-”

“You shut your mouth,” said Dean, his eyes betraying his amusement. “It’s a good thing I can’t hit you right now.”

A pounding knock at the door made the curtains, and the Winchesters, jump.

“Breakfast,” said Dean, springing up from the bed with a grace that belied his injuries.

“Did you get it delivered by angry tractor?” asked Sam.

“Aww, crap,” said Dean. “It’s the douche truck from yesterday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated if you're enjoying this :D


	7. Balls The Size of a Dead Squirrel's

Dean tugged the door open, angling his body to block the view of Sam. He found himself face to face with a dude about his height, with a pockmarked face, long stringy hair, and light silvery-blue eyes. Muscles and a little flab bulged from the cut-off arms of a tight camo print t-shirt that featured a giant cross-hair with a squirrel in the focus.

“I got yer breakfast order,” the guy said, holding a paper bag aloft by the rolled-up top like he was displaying a fish he just caught. 

The douche truck was still idling, adorned with the oversize Union Jack Dean had noticed the day before. Tastefully accented by an NRA decal, a Terrorist Hunting License, the Realtree logo, and Calvin peeing on a rainbow flag.

Despite himself, Dean got a pang of nostalgia smelling the diesel exhaust. There had been a week in a Forest Service truck shop on a hunt where he learned to love that scent, and the wildland firefighters who showed 10-year-old him how to work on the engines while John was away.

“Thanks,” said Dean, accepting the bag and handing the guy a tip. He nodded at the shirt, potential puzzle pieces clicking together in his head. “You hunt squirrels?”

“Sure do,” he said, beaming and sticking out his hand. “Cletus Barker. You hunt varmints?”

“Dean Winchester.” Dean shook Cletus’s hand a little too strongly. “I go for bigger game.”

“Don’t need no permits for squirrels,” said Cletus, winking. “No bag limits either.”

“Yeah, but what do you do with ‘em?” asked Dean, careful not to telegraph interest in the stuffed one on the TV stand. Still could be coincidence. 

“Used to taxidermy the little suckers ‘til my friend Andy closed up his workshop. You mess one up, there’s a dozen more where it came from.” 

“You make any mounts for this motel?” 

Cletus shoehorned himself into the opening of the room and peered around until he located the squirrel on the TV stand. He stank of stale sweat and cigarette butts. Couldn’t be bothered to wash his truck or himself, but somehow had the patience to put dead squirrels in white dresses? Friggin’ humans.

Dean stood firm between Cletus and the bed where Sam lay, bristling at the intrusion and the frigid morning wind whistling in through the open door.

“Awww, damn. She lost ‘er little white dress. It was the cutest little thing, man. Took out a whole nest that day, made me a set with mamma and the babies drinking tea and sold it to the motel. They had it set up in the lobby for the longest time.”

“Not any more?” asked Dean, his fingers curling into fists. All the monsters out there. All the horrors a man could hunt and actually do some good…. and Cletus had to exterminate entire families of innocent animals that weighed all of a pound. And desecrate their remains.

He detested sport hunters on general principle. And if it turned out animals had souls, and ghosts…. _If it feels wrong, it is wrong._ Bobby had drilled that into him, and Sam had refined it. He was instinctively repulsed by what had been done to that squirrel for a reason.

“Nah, place got bought by some touchy-feely animal rights bitch who got all ‘triggered’ seeing it. Think they’s all in different rooms now. If she coulda seen my face after mommy squirrel finished clawing at it, she might have changed her tune. Always take out mother bear before her cubs. Always.” Cletus pointed at Sam. “Your pal don’t look so hot.”

“Hangover,” said Dean, rolling his eyes. “Sam here likes to party and he likes to party hard.”

“Man after my own heart,” said Cletus, making shooty fingers at Sam and winking. 

“You have no idea,” said Sam with a bemused smile that turned into an indignant glare at Dean as soon as Cletus turned his back.

“You want, I could go after work and hunt you a whole mess of squirrels. There’s taxidermist next town over still. Or I could skin ‘em and make you a cap.”

“No thanks,” said Dean. “I got a policy, I only want its head on my wall if it tried to eat me.”

Cletus looked impressed. “You mean it when you said big game. Bears, lions, that sorta thing?”

“Sure,” said Dean. “That sorta thing.”

Cletus adjusted his balls and ambled back outside. “Nice ride,” he said, gesturing at Baby. “She yours?”

“Scuff the paint and I’ll kill you,” said Dean, narrowing his eyes. “Slow.”

“Ten-four, buddy. If y’alls getting lunch, tell Brenda I said to cook you some of Harry’s bison burgers.”

“I’ll do that,” said Dean.

“Hey, if you or your party pal in there are looking to add to the fun, there’s a new lizard working the lot at the truck stop right over there. She’s hotter’n the last few, and clean too. Little pricey, but man, she can’t be a day over eighteen…. want me to hook you up?”

“Do I look like I pay or something?” asked Dean, finally allowing his anger to flash to the surface. 

Cletus scrutinized him. “Come to mention it, you don’t. You’re a pretty fella, ain’t you? No offence, just being hospitable is all.”

* * *

When Dean closed the door, Sam gave him the full bitchface. “I like to party hard? _Seriously_?”

“Didn’t want Cletus there to know you’re hurt,” said Dean, shaking his head at the roar outside when douche truck’s tires screeched. “Man, Idaho has its own unique brand of hospitality. Desk clerk offered me poppers and weed, Cletus offers me dead squirrels and teenage hookers.”

“They’re friendly?” Sam’s face was twisted up, all amused and good-natured on one half, pissy and disgusted on the other. “Did that guy seriously just boast about slaughtering an entire family of squirrels and stuffing their carcasses?”

“You saw the size of his truck," said Dean. “Dude must be hung like a fruit fly.”

"With balls the size of a dead squirrel's," agreed Sam.

"A dead _chick_ squirrel," said Dean, giving the poor thing a pet on the back despite himself.

Sam eased out of bed and Dean set the bag down so he could use both hands to get Sam up. His brother accepted the help, but it relieved Dean when Sam brushed him aside and walked stiffly but unaided into the bathroom. Hadn’t gotten worse, then. That presumably meant no infection, no freak complications. 

When Sam was back and settled on the bed with breakfast, Dean dug into his own, far more delicious breakfast sandwich. “Oh. Oh, this is good. I shoulda ordered two of these.” 

It was perfect, fatty, salty heaven in a crinkly paper wrapper. Forget Sam’s snob food. This here was what made life worth living. Sam was merely picking at the sorry excuse for a breakfast Dean had ordered him, but from the repulsed looks he shot at Dean’s sandwich and his lack of objection, Dean figured it worked.

“So, you might say we have a…. _spirit_ animal,” said Dean, smirking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are gleefully devoured - if you're enjoying this, I'd love to hear it! :D


	8. No Tormenting Injured Mooses

Sam rolled his eyes and grinned at Dean’s dreadful but on-point squirrel pun. “Does Crowley know something we don’t?”

“At least Crowley didn’t let a ghost _sleep on me_!” 

“Hey, I can’t help it if you’re the Disney princess of dead wildlife,” said Sam, tossing a balled-up napkin at Dean. He didn’t want to telegraph his childish desire for Dean to lie back down on the bed with him. He wasn’t in agony any more, but the memory was fresh enough to send ripples of dread through his nervous system every time his stomach spasmed.

The vulnerability was real enough that Sam had sagged in relief when Dean stepped between him and Cletus. He was weary and weak and craved the peace that came with having his big brother close.

He took a cautious bite of the oatmeal. Not half bad. Eggs were decent too. 

“What if it had rabies and bit me?” 

“Squirrels almost never carry rabies,” said Sam. “And viruses need a corporeal body to survive and proliferate in.”

“How do you even _know_ that?” asked Dean, blinking and shaking his head. “Do you, like, study to be a dead squirrel vet in all your spare time?”

The demand to toss on a tough mantle to deal with Cletus had snapped Dean out of his rare relaxed, soft mood. The one where he cuddled little brothers without even making brash jokes and adored having his back stroked. Dean was devouring his breakfast heart attack on a bun and looked content on his own bed.

Dean’s guy code prohibited all the things Sam wanted to say. _Thanks for protecting me from the crude redneck by standing between us and pretending I have a hangover. I hate your puns. Please never stop making them. Thanks for thinking of the only two dishes I might want to eat, when you’re suffering and tired._

_Please come back._

Sam caught a flicker of a sideways glance from Dean, quickly hidden.

_He’s hurting too._ Startled by the realization, Sam looked more openly at his brother, smiling and eating and snarking like he didn’t have a care in the world. But it was a shield. Before Cletus pulled up, Dean had been in visible pain. He hadn’t even fixed his hair for the morning. 

Finishing his eggs, Sam made eye contact, even though he hated how timid it made him feel. He raised a questioning eyebrow and patted the bed.

The instant flash of gratified warmth in Dean’s eyes glowed right down to his soul. Dean grabbed the food bag and clambered onto the bed next to Sam without words or hesitation. Stubborn jerk had been dying to rejoin Sam there, and would have admitted it about the time hell froze over.

It was one gift of the Impala, the way it forced them together so they could unwind in each other’s company. The bliss of quiet and the rumbling of the highway, soft breathing, nonverbal love and contentment. The need for that had doubtless underpinned their mutual, unspoken decision to head right out on the road instead of getting a room in town.

They’d both experienced the death of the other. Experienced losing that feeling of utter trust and safety in the presence of another person. That meant they both recognized what they’d almost lost yesterday, and Sam’s desire to find and cling to it while he could was insatiable. That Dean felt the same thing warmed Sam’s heart to melting and made every agonizing step back to his brother worth it.

Sam slumped his shoulders a fraction of an inch closer to Dean, relaxing. Dean did the same with a content little huff, and Sam could sense his smile. This was safety. This was home. Their little bubble, with the two of them in it. 

“This place is, like, iron central,” said Dean, crumbling up his sandwich wrapper. “Whoever decorated the joint thinks horseshoes are the state bird. And you said it was _friendly_?”

“Nope.” Sam was still working his way through the oatmeal. “Said it was cuddly. And likes you in particular.”

Dean tilted his chin up, affecting a regal pose. “I am the squirrel whisperer! Let no man challenge me, lest he suffer the wrath of my squirrel army.”

“Your _cuddly_ squirrel army.”

Dean glared daggers at him with two gleeful, twinkling eyes. “Damn right. You heard it here first, ladies. I’m such a cuddle pro, even ghost squirrels dig me.”

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” said Sam, shaking his head and despite himself, smiling. Incorrigible, infuriating, impossibly endearing Dean Winchester.

“A human murdered its - her - whatever’s entire family and stuffed them. Even someone like Bobby went vengeful. How’s she want anything to do with humans aside from clawing their eyeballs out?”

“I need my laptop,” said Sam. 

“And I need a drink,” complained Dean. Grumbling aside, he retrieved the laptop, plugged it in, and stuck it on a pillow on Sam’s stomach, taking care to keep weight off the wound. “Only we could find us a case in our own hotel room,” said Dean, grabbing his phone and joining the great googling.

* * *

“Hey-hey!” Dean waggled his phone and smirked. “Two separate quizzes say my spirit animal is a squirrel. Although one did say if I was a witch, my familiar would be a badger.”

“I’m happy for you,” muttered Sam, closing a few spare tabs. The spirit animal quiz garbage was annoying, because it was hard to find anything relating to the spirits _of_ animals, as opposed to spirit animals.

“Bet yours is a moose,” said Dean.

“Shut up,” said Sam. He was trying to find a damn consensus among people with brains, but animal ghosts just weren’t much of a threat, and thus not something hunters were interested in writing about.

“Hey Sammy. Would you rather swim in a lake in Florida or Canada?”

“Cut it out, Dean.”

“I’m putting Canada. Is your ideal meal a green salad, or salmon with a side of fresh berries?”

Sam closed his eyes to try blocking the annoying gnat talking at him. A gentle hand touched his shoulder a moment later.

“Sorry, Sammy.” The hyperactive six-year-old vanished from his voice, replaced with deep concern. “You hanging in there?”

Sam nodded, the frustration melting away. “I’m fine."

“I’m just bored,” said Dean. “I’m not trying to torment injured mooses.”

“Okay,” Sam huffed. His conclusions were shaky at best, but… “So get this. This is the third website that says animal spirits aren’t tied to objects or remains, and that they can move on at will.”

Dean frowned. “So - Ghost Squirrel is just chilling at the Old Frontier Fill ‘em Up and Keep on Trucking Motel with its dead body, watching exhausted travelers have sex? What, for the _fun_ of it all?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are pie. Dean likes pie. So writing a comment is sort of like giving Dean a slice of pie. *nods*


End file.
